


ten steps back

by beautifullytragic



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Season/Series 08, basically they’re drunk and missing each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullytragic/pseuds/beautifullytragic
Summary: He was always going to be hers – her boss, her best friend, her– it was a thought that she usually never finished, even in her head when there was nobody around. Set early season 8.
Relationships: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Kudos: 8





	ten steps back

**Author's Note:**

> _I said I wouldn't call  
>  We said we wouldn't talk at all  
> It always ends bad  
> But I'm looking at my phone  
> And if you're not alone  
> I don't think I could take that  
> 'Cause I'm drunk at a bar at 2 a.m.  
> And I just wanna talk to my best friend_
> 
> _Seaforth - Breakups_

This was a mistake, she thought – fleetingly – as she took another sip from the glass, the ice cubes she had hazardously thrown in clinking against the crystal.

Having a drink in the office on a weeknight was justified, encouraged even, two fingers of whisky poured into the glass tumbler she'd brought from home and gripped by both hands while she sat at her desk, staring down on to the city below.

But then there was the drink when she got home, a _will I-won't I_ with her psyche glaring at her kitchen cabinet, as if her eyes could bore a hole into it, eyeing the bottle of gin she knew was there as a "sorry we're leaving you all alone" present from Rachel, designated as her only-in-emergency bottle, because really who drinks gin alone but right now it was feeling pretty welcome.

Sighing, she pulled another glass on to the counter, throwing a few ice cubes in from her freezer and reached for the bottle, not really measuring but who cares really. She stood staring at the drink, before lifting it to her lips and taking a sip. She screwed up her face, feeling the liquid work its way down her throat, thinking maybe she should mix it with something for her first one. Once you're drunk she supposed, there was no point in mixing if you couldn't taste it – but she wasn't there just yet.

Humming to herself she opened her refrigerator, spying a lone can of lemonade on the top shelf. She could barely even remember what she bought it for, but there it was beckoning to her as if a glowing beacon. Adding it to her glass and regaining her place on her sofa, legs folded under her she leaned back and exhaled, her fingers grasping around the glass so tight anyone else in the room would have sworn the tips were growing even whiter than usual.

Yeah – this was a mistake but at this moment in time, she didn't really care. She quickly downed her drink, thinking it was remarkable that within three gulps her glass was empty once again, wondering why she didn't just bring the bottle with her to the sofa, so that she wouldn't have to get up again.

Making her way back with a refilled glass, her other hand holding the bottle she swayed slightly, placing it on the end table within reach of her perch. She laid back, spreading her legs in in front of her, her finger rimming the lip of the glass as she paused between sips.

It's funny, she thought. How days – weeks even could pass by without her even drinking hard liquor at home. A glass of wine maybe on an evening after a particularly hard day of work, but it wasn't usually her go to. Just tonight felt as if she needed something – something to just take her mind off it and run with it, far away somewhere else.

Though Donna knew she was too old at this point to know that usually if you drink, the things you don't want to think about decide to do the opposite and run at you full force but tonight she was ignoring that, she was trying to ignore every rational thought that entered her head.

The last few months had been tough. There had been everything with Gallo revisited, and Mark, and Harvey was with Paula, and she had kissed him and then he'd broken up with Paula and chosen her but it still wasn't very clear what exactly he had chosen and Mike had left and –

She had finally thought they were getting back on track, dare she say, back to normal. They spoke, they laughed, and they _flirted_. They had said they were going to be friends, and not bring up anything that could potentially be uncomfortable for them, which really meant uncomfortable for him. They had resumed texting late at night, usually nothing, just what they were doing or whatever crappy TV was on at whatever late hour it was they had returned home. But it was something, she thought. It wasn't all her explaining the premise of The Bachelor and him pretending he was listening. It had gotten in to him explaining why he never thought Mark was good for her and her trying to push the boundaries a little trying to express how unreasonable she still thought it was that Paula was so gung-ho on him cutting her out of his life. It had moved from radio silence to _"So what are you wearing?"_ in hushed tones before not hushed scoffs cut that out completely. It was now at _"Can I call for a second?"_ and ended at her waking up to pee at four in the morning with him still on the line, his heavy breathing barely making it across the receiver.

So she wasn't sure. She felt as though something was keeping her at arm's length from him. Even with every phone call, when she saw his name appear on the screen she felt like she had travelled back in time years, and her breath caught in her throat and her heart started to beat a little faster than normal. Almost as if she was nervous, which of course she wasn't because it was Harvey, it was just Harvey.

Which made it a million times worse.

Pouring her third glass, just ice and gin this time, she took a sip, giving herself a sip to warm to the throwing initial taste of it. It was fine she thought, just like she'd taught herself to drink whiskey, you just drink it – until it doesn't hurt. She wonders if that's some sort of sick metaphor for their whole lives.

She yearned for Rachel, wishing her best friend was there with her, at least across the city and could come over at a moment's notice when she was feeling like this. What would Rachel do? Probably make her go out to a bar, she smirked. Probably go out to a bar and chat up some cute guys and just try and distract her until it didn't all feel so overwhelming.

Pressing the button to light up her home screen, she saw it was still before midnight, she could still head out if she wanted to.

Making the decision before she could talk herself out of it, she stood, placing her empty glass on the end table, and walking to the mirror in the hallway. Glancing at herself, she exhaled softly, before reaching for her purse that she'd dropped inside the front door when returned home, and sourced her concealer. Some touch-ups were probably needed she thought, sprucing herself up. Tipping her head upside down and standing back upright she mussed her hair back into place with its new volume.

Going to have to do, she half-smiled, turning back towards her phone. She had seen on Instagram a half hour ago that some of her theatre friends were out in Midtown and had extended an invitation to her to join them when she sent a love heart eyes emoji in response to their story. It was funny, she thought as she typed the address into her Uber app, that exact bar she had only been to before because Harvey had brought her for a post anniversary-dinner drink one year, insisting they should mix up their yearly routine.

_Six minutes away._

She slipped her shoes back on, smoothing out her dress in the mirror, throwing her coat around her shoulders as she watched the little car icon move its way closer to her building.

Twenty minutes later there she was, embracing her friends, slightly more wobbly than she'd like, who can tell how many measures are in a drink if you're free pouring, but she's not caring about that tonight. Moving her way to the bar, she sat on a stool, deciding to sit to as the bartender moved his way around the throng of people that had gathered before she arrived. Placing her phone on the wooden counter she pressed the button again so the screen illuminated, showing her a notification that she could tip her driver and leave a review if warranted, She had a fleeting thought about whether Harvey got notifications about her Uber trips, she knew she got them about his – it was a kind of self-destructive mechanism she thought, getting a notification that he had arrived home at 4am when he hadn't mentioned anything other than going home usually caught her right in the chest, a sudden reminder that maybe as much as it seemed, they did still have some secrets. The worst was when they had been texting, and it had gone from a more stilted _"how was your day"_ to more in depth, asking her how she really felt about him being single and Paula and everything, her short chaste answers and then notification at three in the morning that he was arriving home, letting her know that he had been out during their conversation, perhaps drunk, perhaps with his arm around a blonde, or a brunette or maybe both or maybe neither and she wasn't quite sure what was worse.

She has recently resigned to the fact that she was decidedly trying not to know about what he did with anyone else outside work. There was only so long you could try and make it work out with other people, she thought, pushing him to just _be happy_ with Zoe, with Scottie, with Paula.

But right now, she's quite glad for their chasm in their interactions right now at work, because she isn't privy to whatever or _whoever_ he does once he leaves work, on the nights he doesn't call. She's not sure that even a passing comment on whoever he was seeing right now, if anyone, wouldn't just feel as though someone had brought back bows and arrows as weapons and pierced one right through her chest.

She had set the notifications up to save her when he used to call her on his way out of somewhere, surmising perhaps he was going home but maybe not and when she'd offer to call him a cab he'd laugh and say that how could she when he wasn't even sure where he was. So she had set it up, so that no matter where he was, a cab was accessible to him at all times. And then she had set the same up on his phone for her app, usually just in case they had been at a bar together – when they used to go to bars together – and his phone had died, because he never charged it – because why would he when he had her, and she used her app to ordered his way home, and he would check the charge the next day to _'reimburse'_ her he said, though it always came in the form of a new designer bag, and not a returned charge on her debit account. She usually never used Uber if she was going out or home with someone else, choosing a yellow cab over it – somewhere in her mind always pulling her towards the fact that once she used it, there would be a pop-up on his phone about it – whether he cared to read it, or decide to feel anything about it or not.

She traced her finger down the phone screen, a sudden pulling feeling in her stomach wishing they were texting right now. She wasn't sure if it was the drinks she'd had before, or the new one nestled in her left hand but she wanted to talk to him. It was amazing, that she was surrounded by her friends, by some people she hadn't seen in months who were currently killing it on the theatre scene, a world that used to also be hers – and she just wished for everything in her that something would pop up from him. It was a strange feeling, she thought, taking a sip of her new drink. A red wine. Why she thought a third drink would really spice up how she was feeling and _not_ make her ill in the morning was a whole thought she wasn't going to think about right now.

Her head was buzzing, and her fingers felt light and, walking back to her friends, pressing in beside them, she still felt hopelessly lost and missed him.

Because these people weren't him. They weren't her _best_ friend, no matter who or what she tried to justify that fact, it just was. He was always going to be hers – her boss, her best friend, her – it was a thought that she usually never finished, even in her head when there was nobody around.

Checking her phone one more time before she threw it in to her coat pocket, this was probably for the best. They had decided – out loud at least, that them being cordial and 'back to normal' was for the best, and that meant that she doesn't get to text him half-drunk in the early hours. Whatever normal for them was, and right now, she wasn't sure it had ever been what they call normal. Or what anybody else would.


End file.
